by Terri Nolan
“Frank, this is Birdie, I have an emergency—”
“—Bird?” said Frank, picking up the phone. “Are you alright?”
“It’s Thom. He’s going to need our help. Arthur’s on the way. He’s going to swing by and pick you up.”
“Oh my. What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to say on the phone. But he’s going through a crisis and he’ll need all of us just to get through this night.”
“Okay. I’ll be ready.”
With her support team on the way Birdie debated whether to continue the video. After all, it really was redundant now. What more did they need? The paperwork alone laid out the specifics. She knew the identity of the man. Did she need the visual?
It was like being stuck in traffic that had slowed due to a crash on the other side of the freeway. Drivers paused just long enough to get a quick view of the destruction, but long enough to snake the traffic behind. It was human nature to watch the wreck.
In the end Birdie couldn’t help herself. She pressed play.
… Anne lifted the trunk lid and removed a grocery bag. She walked to the door and pressed a button. The garage door slowly rolled down. Birdie half expected the cameraman to run and slide under. Instead, he placed three fingers in front of the lens and counted them down. The image flickered and a quad screen lit up. Four video views.
Noa had already wired the house. So totally illegal.
Anne put the bag on the kitchen counter. “Hello, darling,” she called out.
With audio, too.
There was no way Thom could ever see this. She dialed down the volume just in case he decided to come back into the office. Looking at it was hard enough; she didn’t need to hear it as well.
The man approached Anne with a limpid look on his face. He embraced her from behind, wrapped his arms around her waist and nibbled her ear. His hands moved down her body and came back up under a loose blouse and cupped her breasts. She raised her arms and he pulled it off. She attempted to turn, but he pushed her against the counter. He hooked a finger under her chin and turned her face toward him. They kissed slowly, deeply. He moved his hands to her throat, kissed the back of her neck, down her back and released her bra with his teeth.
“Tricky,” snickered Birdie.
He held her there with one hand while the other shimmied down the skirt and she stepped out of it.
“Elastic. Sure, make it easy for him.”
He pulled her panties down, but couldn’t pull them off because they hung up on her shoes. Anne managed to kick them off and then she was utterly naked. He undid his pants, pulled them down to his knees and thrust his erect penis inside her.
“No condom? Sleezeball.”
Anne held on the counter as he urgently screwed her from behind. Her mouth opened, her back arched, and too soon it was over, both of them shaking in orgasm.
Birdie fast-forwarded through the video, pausing every now and then. They did it multiple times, utilizing a bedroom, the shower, the living room couch. Three hours later, spent and hungry, they turned their attention to the groceries and she finally turned it off.
Birdie felt as though she were a dove that had just flown into a window and fell to the ground, too stunned to fly away, even as the neighborhood cat stalked. It was many minutes before she could even move.
The betrayal wasn’t just Thom’s. Her emotions traveled an entire road starting at gloom and ending in anger.
Birdie gathered all the material. The documents, the photo sleeve, all three discs and shoved it back into the envelope and put it in the safe. She spit out the gum, wrapped it in its foil wrapper and rolled it into a ball. She unwrapped two pieces of fresh gum and began chewing hard as she walked angry circles around the altar.
There was no way she’d go upstairs and tell Thom the awful news until after Arthur and Frank arrived. They’d advise her on how to proceed. Thom might be furious with Birdie for breaking a confidence, but he’d need all the help and support she could get for him.
As she continued circling she actually considered a scheme to conceal the man’s identity. But she knew Thom. He’d torture it out of her. Then she determined that she’d give him one of her anxiety pills. Take the edge off before hearing the news. It might also calm him enough to make him forget about committing murder.
A loud pop came from upstairs.
A distinctive sound. A gunshot. No mistake.
Instinctively, she threw herself on the floor and started crawling to the desk to get her hands on the loaded Sig when she realized what the gunshot meant.
Oh, no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no!
He didn’t.
He wouldn’t.
Birdie pushed up off the floor and sprinted out of the office, ran down the hall and hit the service stairs, taking them three at a time. She pushed open the guest room door.
On the bed, laid out with care: Thom’s Class A uniform, his service weapon, and badge.
Oh, God, please no.
She ran into the bathroom and came to an abrupt halt.
Her eyes focused on one thing: Thom’s leg dangling over the edge of the bathtub.
forty-nine
Thom’s underwear-clad body lay in an awkward position inside the small tub. His head, wrapped in a bath towel, rested on the back edge as if he were taking a soak. His right index finger was hooked around the trigger of the Smith & Wesson they had shot earlier in the day.
Birdie was seriously stressed.
The primitive parts of the brain had triggered the reflex to duck when she first heard the gunshot—the chain reaction of brain-body impulses already engaged. The adrenal glands located on top of her kidneys had squirted the stress hormones adrenaline and cortisol. These fight-or-flight hormones caused her pupils to dilate and her heart to pump at an exercise rate of one-hundred-sixty beats per minute. Her blood pressure jumped to dangerous, heart-attack levels and she began to sweat. Her body, already in panic mode, gave her the strength to move faster than the norm.
Once her higher brain acknowledged the situation, she could choose which way to deal with the stress of seeing her cousin in full-on suicide mode in her bathtub.
Birdie dropped to her knees and screamed. A common stress release method.
Then she yelled. “Goddamn you, Thomas Alfred Keane. You know what happened this year. You thought it’d be okay to scramble your brain in my bathtub? Make me find your lifeless body? I hate you right now.”
Thom wept as he tore off the towel. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it.”
“But you considered it and shot a bullet into my wall.”
Disgusted and thoroughly pissed off, she pushed up off the floor and stumbled into the bedroom. Her hands shook so hard she felt the quake in her shoulder blades.
Thom entered the room, the gun still in his hand, and attempted to hug her in apology. Two things happened at once: Birdie spun around and snatched the gun from his hand, she aimed at a spot high on the wall and squeezed the trigger; Arthur ran into the room and tackled her. They fell to the ground and Arthur’s body weight forced the breath from her lungs when they hit the floor.
Arthur disarmed her and rolled away. Birdie gasped for air. Thom crouched, confused by Birdie’s frustrated shot at the ceiling and his brother’s sudden appearance.
In his calm, priestly way, Father Frank said, “Who were we called out to control?”
_____
The foursome sat in the library: the three men with crystal snifters of Birdie’s ex-favorite liqueur, B&B, she with a cup of steaming hot tea with lemon held directly under her nose to prevent her from smelling the decadent and tempting aroma of the Benedictine and brandy.
Birdie had no need to betray Thom’s confidence to Arthur and Frank. He told them all after an impromptu prayer circle to thank God for giving him the common sense not to en
d his own life.
Arthur said, “I cannot believe you’ve allowed that woman to emasculate you.”
Thom shrugged in resignation, all pride gone. “How can I explain how much I’ve always loved her? From the first moment I saw her sunny smile and freckles.”
“We cannot always know the path that God has laid out for us,” added Frank, “but there are five reasons Anne and Thom came together and their names are Pearce, Padraig, Liam, Rose, and Nora. And it is those innocents for whom we must focus our energies.”
“It’s apparent that Thom and Anne will never repair the damage her affair has caused,” said Birdie.
“That’s not true,” said Frank. “Thom doesn’t yet have enough emotional distance from this situation. We cannot speak for Anne.”
“Oh, yes, we can,” said Birdie. “I saw her”—she winked two fingers—“emotion planted on another man.” She felt Thom’s gaze aimed at her. She avoided his eye because he had not yet asked who and she didn’t want to go there.
Then again, this would be the perfect time for him to know. He had the willing support of his priest and brother nearby. She flipped her eyes in his direction to gauge his state. He still had his eyes glued to hers. She knit her brows in question. He shook his head no.
Well, okay, that decided it for Thom.
But it did not satisfy Birdie’s need for confrontation.
fifty
Thursday, May 17
There are three ways of doing things:
The right way.
The wrong way.
And Birdie Keane’s way.
Four-fifteen a.m. Birdie turned off the headlights, killed the engine, and coasted until the car came to a halt against the curb. Nothing stirred in the neighborhood. She understood why the dead fish murderer picked this hour. It was an ideal time of morning. Night owls were asleep; the morning people not yet up. If there were an awakening noise, say a scream or a gunshot, who among them would be able to transition from REM to cognition? The noise would be interpreted as something from a dream.
She relished the moonless dark and the gauzy fog concealing her presence. The only light source flickered from an unreliable lamppost at the corner. She didn’t need it anyway. She knew the landscape of this street. The target house. She approached in stealth, knew each step from this moment forward having already worked out the plan.
Birdie stopped at a familiar copper gate and unlocked the deadbolt. It opened silently. She slipped inside the courtyard and inhaled the scents of spring: honeysuckle, pink jasmine, and green bamboo—the smells of renewal and hopefulness. She refused to take a moment to reflect on the correct course of action because her value system of right and wrong and common sense would force her to turn around and abandon this crazy, and potentially deadly, quest.
She crouched near the porch and picked through the shiny black rocks until she found the one she sought: a ceramic rock that concealed an emergency key. Then she sat back against the wall and waited for the sound of water running through the pipes. When the water heater in the closet near the front porch fired up, she knew the home’s owner was in the shower.
The moment had arrived.
She unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
She knew the floor plan. The layout of the furniture. Knew where the master bath was located. She walked down the short hall hung with photos of family and friends. She opened the bedroom door. The bed had already been made, the pillows fluffed.
The bathroom door was ajar, yet its occupant could not see her. The shower door was made of clear glass etched with a design of lotus flowers. The moment she stepped inside the bathroom she’d be seen.
Birdie whispered an ecclesiastical prayer: Miserére mei, Deus, secúndum misericórdiam tuam; et secúndum multitúdinem miseratiónum tuárum dele iniquitátem meam. Amplius lava me ab iniquitáte mea et a peccáto meo munda me. Have mercy on me, God, in your kindness. In your compassion blot out my offense. O wash me more and more from my guilt and cleanse me more from sin.
A prayer such as this would usually be said after the offense. Birdie said it upfront to get ahead of the game. She counted to three and pushed open the door.
The man’s hands were in his hair, in full lather mode. He eyes widened in disbelief and his head shook slightly as though seeing a mirage. Birdie didn’t waste time with pleasantries. She pulled open the glass door and slammed her taped knuckles into George Silva’s face; felt the cartilage in his nose break, saw the shampoo and blood sluice down his face.
He screamed something unintelligible.
“That’s for cheating on me,” yelled Birdie.
She punched the left side of his chest. Right near his heart.
“That’s for betraying your partner.”
George slumped to the shower floor, legs askew.
Birdie wound up for a kick.
“No, no, no,” he cried. “It’s not wha ya think.”
Birdie stepped back.
“I saw you screwing Anne with my own eyes. Your partner’s wife! I can forgive you for the trespass against me, but not for Thom’s.”
She spit on her past lover, past friend. Thom’s past partner.
“Did you really think that Anne would divorce him and you’d take his place at the family dinner table and become his children’s stepdad? You don’t mess with the Keane clan and come out okay. Bastard! You’re out, George. Banished. You resign the department or transfer to another division. You don’t attend Mass at St. Joseph or Bonaventura. You don’t come to the Manor. Thom never sees your face again. And don’t forget, the Whelan clan is our ally.”
_____
Thom, Arthur, and Frank were still talking quietly in the library. Birdie tiptoed back to the kitchen. One of them had made a fresh pot of coffee. Birdie poured herself a cup and took a long steamy inhale to wash the stink of George from her nose. Her fingers were beginning to swell.
Arthur entered the kitchen and went straight to the freezer and pulled out a plastic bag of popcorn kernels and threw them on the counter. He picked up Birdie’s hand and kissed her bruised knuckles.
“The devil is in Bird’s right hand.”
She tried to pull her hand away, but Arthur’s grip was strong. He covered her hand with the frozen popcorn.
“Where’d you hit him?”
“Who?” said Birdie. She had claimed sleepiness and went upstairs to her room before sneaking away to George’s. She thought her getaway clean.
“You think you’re clever,” said Arthur. “You take the role of family protector a little too far. Hope he doesn’t charge you with b-and-e and assault.”
“Who?” she repeated.
“George, of course.”
“What?” She attempted to move back, but Arthur’s grip was stronger than hers. “How did you know?”
“Thom found his nuts. Had to know who the scumbag was.”
“I put that stuff in the safe.”
“But failed to lock it.”
“Kidding me? How stupid am I? Did he look at the video or find his name in the file?”
“The file. I doubt he’ll ever watch Anne doin’ George. That shit is messed up.”
“How is he?”
“We’ve been through the alphabet soup of emotions. He’s especially mad at himself for considering … you know.”
Birdie finally managed to free her hand from Arthur’s and sat at the bar. He followed her and put the popcorn back on her hand.
“Once we knew it was George we knew where you snuck off to.”
“I banished him.”
Arthur laughed at the absurdity. “Oh, really, tough girl? How do you plan on enforcing banishment?”
Birdie snorted out a giggle. “I won’t need to. I reminded him of our ties to the Whelan’s. I told him you don’t mess with the Keane clan and come out okay.”
“That much is true. What’d you do to him?”
“Took him by surprise, naked and vulnerable in the shower.”
“Had to. He’s taller and heavier than you.”
“I wanted him to know we could get to him.”
“Where’d you hit him?”
Birdie touched the bridge of Arthur’s nose. “One shot. Broke his nose.”
“Very nice. Broke all those tiny blood vessels in the orbital region and got the nose in one shot. That pretty face of his will be messed up for weeks.”
“I punched him in the heart as well.”
“Well, it’s protected by a breast plate. All you managed was a metaphor.”
“That was my intent.”
Arthur nodded with approval. “Don’t know if I’d be so reserved.”
“It’s over.”
“For you maybe. But not for Thom.”
fifty-one
Birdie dreamt she was in a cinderblock cage. The walls were painted crude-oil black mixed with fish scales, making the walls shine. She pushed at the walls, trying to find a weakness, a way out. The walls closed in around her. She screamed for Matt to save her. Then she was in an old stone abbey, gun in hand. A Franciscan monk in leather sandals moved along the far wall. The hood of his robe obscured his face. A pair of lovebirds in a simple cage fashioned from twigs hung from a rope under an archway. As the monk turned his head to gaze up at the birds the sunlight caught his face. The man had bright shamrock green eyes. Matt’s eyes. The gun went off and scared the birds. The female flew into the twig bars of the cage, damaging her beak. The male kept tweeting, birdbirdbirdbirdbirdbird.
“Bird,” said Arthur, shaking her legs, “wake up. You’re screwing up your sleep patterns.”
Birdie pulled the covers from her head and opened an eye. The room was pitch dark and her heart lurched.
Arthur opened the blackout shades. Light flooded her bedroom. A pair of cooing doves that were sitting on the window ledge flew away.
“Come on, I know it’s hard. If you sleep too long you won’t sleep tonight.” He pulled the covers off her.
